


Pygmalion Boy: He Who is Milk-White

by thesunkid



Category: DCU, DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Alternate Universe, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-26 00:12:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesunkid/pseuds/thesunkid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s some kind of strange holiday miracle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pygmalion Boy: He Who is Milk-White

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://thesunkid.tumblr.com/post/25639598120/pygmalion-boy-he-who-is-milk-white-dicktim)

The snow was rather early this year; just the start of winter and Gotham was already a gilded city of white gold.  So pretty they said, with their frosted smiles and crossed fingers, what a perfect way to spend the summer; a frozen oasis for the frivolous rich to tumble about, warm from the friction of their shiny cards and crisp bills.

Dick smashed his face to the frosted glass, delighting in the momentary burst of clarity that formed from the heat of his breath.  Alfred would berate him later—he was probably watching from some corner now, with towel and cleaning agent in hand—but Dick could deal with it.  There weren’t many moments he found himself back at the manor these days, not with Blüdhaven calling like some nosy mother-in-law.

“Master Richard,” right on cue, “I would appreciate it if you refrained from smudging the glass, or you’ll find yourself delighting  _all_  of them with a good scrub.”

Dick smiled, gingerly removing his frost-kissed cheeks from the window, “Sorry Alfred.  Just a bit excited.”

And with good reason, he’d been so busy establishing himself these past couple of years, he’d hardly had anytime to just kick back and relax, talk a walk (out of costume) about the town, or just watch the snow fall in little flurries around the manor.

“Hey, Alfred.  I’ll just be a minute, okay?  Gonna go for a stroll.”

The older man sighed and glanced out the window, across the grounds and into the blank expanse currently consuming the grounds.

“Don’t stay out too late please; Master Bruce is expecting you at dinner tonight.”

Dick grinned before hopping over the couch and scurrying down the hall.  “And _please_  try to stay dry, Master Richard!”

Even smothered in white, the estate was so well manicured that Dick would have believed Alfred to have hired a horde of gardeners if he knew for fact that Alfred Pennyworth was the world—no _galaxy’s_ —one and only Super Butler; he seemed to know everything and anything regardless of place and time, and none were privy to his secrets, not even Bruce.

Dick’s tongue snaked out from between his lips, eager to taste the snowflakes falling from the sky in little arcs.  Sugar-sweet yet faintly bitter, they burst upon his taste buds—both kisses and apologies for Gotham for her long earned nap.  Things seemed to settle down, just slightly, when the winter came around, as if the cold and snow swept in to put all the crazy and ill-intent to sleep.

He remembered the last time he’d things had been this tranquil.  He’d just turned five and was bundled safely between his parents.  Happily he realized the snow in Europe had been just as white, just as pristine as Gotham’s current coat.  That made things just a little bit better.

The night had been young, and the stars just beginning to blink the sleep from their eyes.  His father had jerked him awake—the rhythmic  _clickety-clack_  of the train never failed to send off right off to sleep— and directed his gaze to some far corner of the sky, moments before a lonely meteor flew past eyes, the brilliance of its tail wiping the strands of sleep from his own eyes.

“Close your eyes and make a wish,” his mother had whispered to him, squeezing his shoulders encouragingly.

He’d been too awed, too muddled to correctly pin a wish its fiery tail, and those childish words he’d uttered had long since been lost to him, but what he did remember was a burning desire to find someone to hold, someone to care for and love—a  _brother_ of some sort.

Dick glanced at his watch, ten to seven; he’d have another thirty minutes or so, before Alfred came for him.  Eying the still immaculate snow around him, he decided he’d risk it.  He’d bank on Bruce being late to dinner—which he usually was.

The snow’s perfect condition was mocking him, calling him to play.  He hopped around a few times, even allowing himself a few cartwheels just to get the blood flowing, before giving in to the child in him, always eager, and began to build a snowman.

It’d been years since he’d done so and it took a few moments to control the giddiness that threatened to break several attempts at just one ball, before Dick managed to even flesh out a rough form.

Standing a humbling five feet eight inches, it was more like white mound than a snow man.  Dick stepped back, his hand tapping some jaunty pop song on his chin, as he contemplated a fix.

Maybe if he tried something more artistic, it’d gain some semblance of a body.

With a steady hand, he reached out toward the lump and slashed out a shape.  He’d work on the head first.  If there was anything he’d retained from those awkward art sessions as a child, it was that the face could make it or break it.  And, besides, if the body failed, he’d have to pride himself in making a pretty decent bust.

Dick’s fingers worked swiftly, dipping and pressing and shoving away unwanted snow.  It was hard work; snow was an unforgiving medium.  Several times already he’d stooped down to gather more of it to fill in gaping holes and odd tilts.

He wasn’t paying attention while he worked, too lost in the fog of nostalgia that had rolled in with the night.  The stars were just as tired and hazy as that night some eighteen years ago; the moon a thin sliver of light, bent in some wry smile.

He was thinking of that brother he’d wanted.  Bruce had never been an option; between them and sprung a different sort of need, a different sort of love.  They needed each other, supported each other, but it there was something there, something stopping them.  He was his father, a strong unmovable weight.

Jason was entirely different story.  He’d tried—tried hard, but there it had never developed, never taken root, and was yanked from bed before he’d even fully considered it, crushed by iron and smothered by laughs.

A flash of light pierced the fog.  It rocketed across the sky, illuminating it just for a moment, but long enough for Dick to see what had taken shape under his fingers.  His hand slid down from the hair, a little long but smooth and curling gently at the ends, to skim a thin elven face.  It was small and delicate with bends that were both gentle and aristocratic.

Something warm bubbled up in his chest.  This was what he’d been looking for, a brother that was sweet, and kind and caring.  Someone he could coddle.

Slowly, Dick’s fingers fell past the nose and to the blank space where a mouth lay in wait, deep within the snow sculpture.  They sprang into action, working to find the right shape to fit the face.

Were he real, he’d take him out and show him off.  Dick was that kind of person, he knew; the kind with a heart that spilled the overflow into his limbs, where they worked about the world.

He’d take him to school and keep to shadows when approached; give him a chance to prove himself, but creep out of the darkness when the tormentors were alone.  He’d steal him away to the arcade or the stadium or just a drive around city, showing him all the places he’d discovered as a kid, lead him around till he knew the place as well as Dick did.

He’d bring him to circus, show him his family, for to be a part of one was to be a part of the other, and give him a his own pair of wings and watch as the very first time he took off, all the while just one step behind.

They’d spend long hours at home, buried beneath blankets and pizza, held captive in a movie marathon until sleep stole their eyes.  He’d carry him to bed and promise him the world.  He’d be safe and secure there next to him, trusting and unguarded.  He’d be just an arm’s reach away, always there with eyes that lit up at his presence and lips that—

Dick jerked back, landing in twisted heap.

Cool—they were cool to the touch, soft and sweet and slightly damp.  His knuckles grazed his mouth slightly, coming away with the same honeyed snow that glittered in the moonlight.

His heart squeezed, and Dick stood quickly, dusting the remaining snow from his jacket.  He’d just—he’d done something stupid.  He needed to get back inside quickly before he completely lost his mind.

As he turned to leave, another flash caught his eye and the distinct sound of cracking ice sounded across the grounds.  Whirling around, Dick’s eyes widened.

There under a shallow veil of moonlight and fast-fading stardust, on the face of his unfinished sculpture was a swiftly growing fissure.  A symphony of  _pops_  and _hisses_  suffused out from lips like first breath.  That odd bubbling sensation in Dick’s chest returned, as if answering a call.

The unshaped snow around it quivered until suddenly it melted, rolling off in thick ribbons to seep into the ground.  A body collapsed on top of the thawing snow, his breathing coming out in large bursts of steam.

Dick approached cautiously, hand raised halfway in half curiosity, half defense.

The man— _boy_ —lifted his head, still kneeling, eyes meeting Dick’s guarded gaze.  They were blue, large and  _blue_ , blinking sleepily up at him like stars.  But upon closer inspection, Dick could see the quiet burning behind them.  They carried soothing warmth that would scatter a trail of heat in his wake.

“Hi,” Dick breathed, pulling off his coat to wrap the shivering naked body at his feet.

The boy took it gratefully, huddling close and looking small yet defiant.  He stared at the ground for moment and then stood quickly albeit wobbly.  His legs shook from the effort and Dick immediately reached out to steady him.  They met in the middle, chest to chest.

He glanced around, as if righting his surroundings and then slowly raised his hands to cup Dick’s face.  Their eyes met once more and the spark in his gaze melted the words from Dick’s mouth.

“Thank you,” the boy whispered, cheeks like Christmas blooms, before closing the hairsbreadth between them.

The warmth from his eyes seemed to permeate the entirety of his body, his lips gentle and shy, and yet Dick found himself growing warm from the inside out.


End file.
